And the World Keeps Burnin'
by Youko-Kokuryuuha
Summary: Nothing's changed. Even after all the war and misery, the death and loss, people haven't changed. Even when the smoke fills their noses, even when they're choking on the incense, people refuse to admit that the flames burn. Jurgens one-shot.


Disclaimer: I don't own Eureka Seven and all that jazz.

Warnings: Mild swearing.

A/N: After reading Guardian1's _But That was in Another Counry_ and carrietheninja's _Cleansing the Soul_ (which are both incredibley well written KH/FFVII fics–_hint hint_), I've decided to try my hand at first person point-of-view. Hopefully, it isn't completely rank.

So, this was inspired by Episode 44: It's All in the Mind, and is basically written from Jurgens' view point about his thoughts and emotions during the visit to Warsaw. Hope you enjoy. :D

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_And the World Keeps Burnin'_

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I hate this place. It stands as a solemn testament to carnage, a memorial for the forgotten. I can see the rubble and debris littered over the ground. The putrid stench of rotting bodies probably still hangs on the air. There are grey blurs outside the window that I know are blocks of stone still lingering on the ground, some of them covered in mold and stained with faint hues of red that recall the horrors of the past.

Ten years. Ten years and not a damn thing has changed.

It's painful to drive past it all and remember. I'm thankful Maria is tactful enough not to say anything, tactful enough to try and stop Dominic from dredging up old memories. Still, she probably knows what's going through my head, what I'm feeling, and what I'm about to do.

"Stop the car." I see the hand reach out in what was probably anticipation for the brake; the car stops. "I'll be right back." I don't wait for an acknowledgment; I don't have to, I'm the captain. I swing open the door and my feet meet wet, scrunchy grass, dirt, and gravel. Even as I open the umbrella, I can see that the sky is a somber grey. (I've never understood why people liked monochrome–too depressing for me.)

The little stone steps are still there, but they're scattered slightly and thrown askew in the scorched patches of faded green and brown grass, which are dotted with white and yellow. I'm surprised there are still flowers in the yard; I expected them to be dead, but they've probably survived off of the rain.

As I stride forward, I can see the house, neatly demolished into a random heap of broken wood-work and stone. And there're the remnants of yellow metal that used to be their swing set. It's splintered here and there, but it's still standing. I remember setting it up and seeing their faces glow. It was like the brightest light in the world, the kind that you can't put out no matter how much it rains or how much the wind howls. It never goes out, just like their smiles.

I miss those goofy little smiles. I miss their little laughs. I miss their weird little questions. I miss seeing them running through the flowers. I miss putting them to bed and I miss waking them up. I miss their goodnight hugs and I miss their good-morning kisses. I even miss that terrible song they made me for my forty-second birthday about my mustache.

I miss my two beautiful daughters. I miss them more than anything in the world.

I miss you, too. Don't think I've forgotten you for a second, because I haven't. I think about your every morning before I get out of bed, every night before I go to sleep. I remember the first time we met, and I'll never forget the look on your face when I asked you to marry me. (Do you remember? It was so funny I couldn't help but laugh, but you scared me pretty bad when you told me you were going to say no because of it.) I play these memories over and over, because it makes me feel like I'm somehow closer to you.

Sometimes, I can't help but cringe knowing that all of you are still here, maybe angry at me for not visiting more often. But I also know you're not, that you're just a pile of lifeless corpses, with timber rotting around you as you decay, maybe as maggots–

I nearly choke trying to keep the bile from rising up my throat and spilling into my mouth.

I've got a confession. I–I haven't quit smoking yet, but I'm trying, and I'll keep trying. Maria keeps me in check, reminds me not to; she's irrepressibly like you. Always nagging me, always making sure I keep a level head... but she'll never be you, and I know that.

It's hard for me to swallow, nearly impossible. Lumps in your throat do that. I wipe away the rain water running down my cheeks with a few brushes of my hand–it's rain because men don't cry, especially men of the U.F. Forces. You'd probably tell me that that was silly, that I was being stubborn and hard-headed.

You'd probably be right, too.

I've been thinking a lot lately, about the world. Doesn't seem to be getting any better. People are still getting sick and dying, and I keep hearing crazy things about the Forces. I don't really know what to think anymore. I wish you were here to straighten me out. I wish you hadn't died. I wish pieces of shrapnel hadn't fallen from the sky. I wish our home, our tiny but cozy home, hadn't been torn apart. I wish the burning timber hadn't come falling down on you.

I see it in my dreams sometimes, vivid like it happened yesterday, because I'll never forget. I remember the sweet smell of slowly smoking cherry oak waking me up. I remember you in your night gown, screaming that you'd get the girls. I remember running after you, and hearing the cracking of hot wood as it fell down on you, on our beautiful little girls. I remember you crying, the flames making the air around you ripple, as you told me to go, as you cradled our beautiful little girls. Sometimes I think I should've just stayed, stayed and burned and died with you–would've been less painful than living, anyway.

Dammit. I'm crying. I'm not going to say it's the rain this time. I'm not going to say the sky is crying, either, because I don't believe in those kinds of things and I don't like making excuses. People should be able to admit that their human, that they cry.

I hear the loud blare of the car's horn; that'll be Dominic. He's a good kid, but he doesn't think things through. He lets his heart get in the way, and he's hot-headed and a little impatient. Guess he's a little like me when I was his age.

I shove my hands into my pockets and finger the box of cigarettes. I'll quit, sometime soon, and I'll come back to visit more often. I promise.

Even as I trudge back to the car through the rain, with splotches of mud flying about and smudging the shoes you bought me–the shoes I'll never replace–as my reflection blurs on the sable door, I can't help but think again that nothing's really changed. I barely register the door closing behind me ("Sorry, carry on."). Fact of the matter is, people are still dying, idiots are still running around and stirring up trouble. Families are grieving and war is waging. No one's stopped to remember, no one's had time to mourn.

All of this, and the world keeps turning. It keeps turning and turning, right over the smouldering flames. We're pretty much burning alive; I guess you could say we're slowly roasting. You're probably better off than we are, because we're all idiots who can't stop to think that maybe we should stop lighting fires long enough to put out the flames before we burn to ashes.

I can't help but sigh. I always think like this when I'm in Warsaw.

It's one of the reasons I hate this place.

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-End-

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A/N: Whew, another one-shot, written and posted just for you guys to enjoy. I seem to be turning out a lot of these lately. Anywho, leave me some concrit detailed with your opinions (blunt or not), and I'll be sure to get back to you. :3


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